


Variations

by Anonymous



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Asphyxiation, Blood and Injury, Choking, Curses, Dark Magic, Eskel Whump (The Witcher), Fear of Death, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching, Panic, Rape, Violence, Whump, Winter At Kaer Morhen, mentions of geralt lambert and vesemir, this ain't fluffy alright
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-13 15:40:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28530855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "Eskel, please snap out of it," Jaskier said shakily. "This isn't - this isn't you.""Isn't it? They call me a monster. Might as well act the part."Eskel is cursed. Jaskier tries to survive.
Relationships: Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 13
Kudos: 85
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was looking for a _very_ specific kind of fic the other day, and I could not find it. So, you know what they say - be the change you wish to see in the world and all that. 
> 
> **Read the tags.** Read them well. Know what you're getting into. I assume that if you clicked this despite the warnings, it's because you know what you're about, in which case - enjoy this piece of work. 
> 
> I'll post the second chapter quickly. Also, happy new year <3

This winter was a quiet one. 

Snow had been steadily falling for the past few days, coating the landscape around the keep of Kaer Morhen in thick layers of glimmering white. 

When Jaskier stepped out of his bedroom to head down to breakfast, he was struck by how much colder the air was, and his cheeks and nose pinkened immediately. His breaths were visible when he exhaled. Jaskier covered his mouth and nose with his woolen scarf, then buried his hands deep in the pockets of his cloak. Witchers did not feel cold the way he did; he knew they’d be wearing nothing more than pants and long-sleeved linen shirts - except maybe Vesemir, who had apparently become a bit more sensitive to the cold in his old age. The old witcher liked to knit, and gifted each of them a scarf for this year’s Yule. Lambert protested, as he was wont to do, but he’d been wearing the scarf nearly every day. 

Jaskier was really happy to be here with them. They had all become his friends along the years, the awkwardness of the first winter Geralt brought him here melting to become an easy, comfortable familiarity that Jaskier held onto. He’d known Geralt for close to fifteen years now, and the man remained true to himself, with all the qualities and faults of his character. Lambert’s fiery temper was something one had to get used to, but he warmed up to Jaskier considerably after the latter outsmarted him in a game of Gwent, and shared a joint or two with him. Vesemir reminded Jaskier of his own grandfather. He enjoyed making the elder witcher talk about himself while they shared a last after-dinner liqueur by the warmth of the fireplace, sometimes late into the night. Jaskier took notes, of course - of the stories Vesemir told him, the places, the people, the monsters involved. The notes didn't necessarily become songs, unless he had a sudden surge of inspiration. But lately, he’d been mostly toying with the idea of writing his memoirs at some point of his life, and so he took care to accumulate material and recordings of what he experienced. 

And the witcher Jaskier had the most affinity with was Eskel. Although physically similar to Geralt, he stood out in terms of character. Once one got past how gruesome and disturbing his facial scars looked, it became very easy to like Eskel for his gentleness, intelligence, and poise. He was Geralt’s equal when it came to sword skills, and the best of all the witchers when it came to Signs. He was also well-read (a hobby he never gave up, even on the Path) and had a reputation for being honest, damn good at his job, and always cool. Jaskier had crossed his path a few times outside of Kaer Morhen, and it had always been a pleasure to grab a drink and catch up with him, the conversation flowing effortlessly for hours. Yes - Jaskier quite valued his friendship with all of them. 

And speaking of the devil… Jaskier walked into the kitchen, where there was no one but Eskel, sitting on the bench and stuffing his face with scrambled eggs. Jaskier grabbed an apple and sat down in front of him, helping himself to the food that’d been set on the table, slices of white bread and cheese and honey. 

“Mornin’,” Eskel said, his voice rough, his hair sticking on ends. _Adorable_ was not quite the right word to describe a burly, scarred witcher, but Jaskier thought it anyway. He beamed at him. 

“Good morning, Eskel. Sleep well?” 

“T’was fine.” Eskel swallowed and scrapped his spoon against the plate, catching the last bits of food. “Want some tea?” 

“Please.” Eskel nodded and got up, the bench scraping against the stone floor. He threw his plate in the sink and grabbed a clean mug for the bard in one of the shelves. Jaskier’s stomach rumbled loudly. “Oh, hush. Food is coming, see?” Jaskier bit in a cheese and honey sandwich, humming in pleasure at the taste. Fuck, but he was hungry. 

Eskel set a steaming mug of black tea in front of him and sat down again, curling his big hands around his own drink. 

“Geralt’s in the stables, preparin’ the horses,” he said after a moment of silence. “He and Lambert spotted a wyvern, want to go hunting.”

“Sounds good. It might be good for Lambert too, I got the feeling he was becoming restless.” 

“What gave it away?” Eskel said dryly. “Yesterday’s explosion in the lab or him usin' you for target practice?” 

Jaskier grimaced then laughed, remembering the scene from a few days ago. They’d been in the main hall after dinner, each one choosing to spend the evening differently. Jaskier had been sitting on a stool in front of the huge fireplace, idly strumming his lute and testing out a few tunes. Vesemir had been sprawled in the armchair opposite him, reading a book Eskel gave him. The three brothers had been playing Gwent at the table, or at least Eskel and Geralt were : Lambert had lost and was waiting for his turn, bored. He was twirling a sharp dagger in his hand, using it to clean his fingernails. His gaze fell on Jaskier. And then, without warning, he stood up and lazily threw the dagger at the bard. It embedded itself in the dark wood of the mantle _just_ above Jaskier’s head. Jaskier froze on the spot, slowly turning his head towards Lambert, who looked smug at having aimed so true. 

And then Geralt punched Lambert in the face, his expression apoplectic. 

Eskel had had to restrain him while Jaskier reassured Geralt that he was _fine, just a bit spooked is all,_ and Lambert spat blood on the floor, cursing profusely. That had been... an interesting night. Eskel cracked a smile too at the memory. He sipped his tea and sighed. 

“What about Vesemir?” Jaskier asked. 

“Grumbled somethin’ about collecting a bunch of herbs outside. In mid winter.” Eskel shook his head. “I think he just needs to stretch his legs a little.” 

“Understandable. I won’t tell him to be careful, lest you all give me _the look_.” He grinned. 

“The look?” 

“The look that says it’s dumb to enquire after your wellbeing because you’re all such strong, mighty _witchers_.” Jaskier grabbed a stray knife to cut his apple. 

“Vesemir will be fine. Knows these forests like the back of his hand.” 

“I don’t doubt it.” 

Silence fell again, companionable. Eskel started clearing away the table. “And you?” The witcher asked. “Any plans for the day?” 

“Not really.” Jaskier waved a hand. “I was thinking I should empty my bags, sort through them. And Vesemir’s asked me to do laundry. And prepare dinner.” 

Eskel hummed as he washed the dishes. “Well if you need help at some point, tell me. I’m stayin' here.” 

“Really? Not joining your brothers on their hunt?” 

“Nah. Fed the goats and chickens this morning and…” Eskel sighed, his shoulders slumping. “I think Lil’ Bleater is sick. She was curled in a corner, didn’t want to move. Usually she’s the first outside the pen, even if it’s cold…” 

Jaskier’s heart tightened in his chest. “Oh, I hope it's nothing bad.” 

Eskel shook his head and resumed washing the pan. “Nah, think it’s just indigestion. She has a bad habit of eating almost anythin’. Still, I’d prefer to watch over her for the day. Make sure it’s nothin' bad.” 

Jaskier nodded in agreement. 

He finished his breakfast quietly, letting Eskel deal with cleaning up for today (they took turns for basic chores like this.) Jaskier headed down to the laundry room, where baskets of dirty clothes awaited him. He made a face, but rolled up his sleeves and set to work, grabbing soap, lye and a wooden washboard. For over an hour he washed clothes, making a dent in the laundry piles, and hung the clothes to dry over strings suspended in the room. His lower back hurt and his arms were stiff. Jaskier dried his hands, stretched and yawned, heading back upstairs to his own assigned bedroom at the keep. 

He’d left the window open to air the room and quickly closed it, shivering at the cold that had settled in. He made his bed quickly, brushed his hair and teeth, took off his cloak to put on a warm sweater instead because it was _really fucking cold._ He grabbed a vial of vanilla scented oil, to put some on the insides of his wrists and behind his ear, but it slipped through his fingers and went rolling on the floor beneath the cabinets. “Ah, shit,” Jaskier muttered. He knelt down and peered beneath the piece of furniture. He could see the gleaming vial, but it was too far for him to reach. He stood up and tried to push the cabinet, but it wouldn’t budge an inch. “Damn it.” 

It was only oil, but a damn _expensive_ one, and Jaskier wanted it back right now! Eskel could move the cabinet for him... He’d ask him to do so later. Sighing in frustration, Jaskier dusted off his pants and then grabbed one of his supple leather bags. It contained a bunch of his least important belongings, hence why he hadn’t immediately emptied it upon arriving at the keep. Jaskier opened it and dropped everything on the bedcover. Out spilled an amalgamation of objects, little trinkets, papers, and products. There was even an old, sticky packet of dried grapes. Jaskier grimaced and threw it aside. He needed a bin. 

He left his bedroom and headed down to the kitchen again. He grabbed a large paper bag, then paused and put it on the table. He stepped outside into the courtyard to see if he could find Eskel. He passed in front of the stables : Roach and Lambert’s horse, a bay gelding named Tobias, were gone. Scorpion, who belonged to Eskel, and Zia, who was Vesemir’s mare, remained. The horses snorted at Jaskier as he walked by. He hurried to the goats’ pen and entered it. None of the chickens in the nearby enclosure were outside, the poultry sane enough to stick inside their own house for the warmth. The goat pen was much the same. Kar Morhen had five does and a buck, and they were all huddled in one corner of it, lazily chewing on some hay, opposite from Eskel’s bulk. The man was crouching down, gently stroking the head of one tiny goat, who bleated weakly. 

“Ssssh. I know, I know,” Eskel murmured, and Jaskier’s heart _melted_. He stepped closer slowly. “Hurts, doesn’t it? It’ll pass, baby.” 

“How is she?” Jaskier asked. Eskel had covered the goat’s back with an old red blanket. The poor thing gave another bleat, and tried to headbutt Eskel’s hand. 

“Well, I can’t smell any infection or illness, so I really think it’s just indigestion. You ate somethin’ bad, hmm?” Lil' Bleater bleated again in response. “Gave her some brew against the pain and somethin' else for fever, just in case. She just needs rest now.” Eskel stood up, his knees cracking. “Not much more I can do. I’ll come back to check on her throughout the day. You wanted something?” 

“Ah, yes.” Jaskier tore his gaze away from the little goat. “I mean, it’s not that important, it can definitely wait, but if you’ve got five minutes to spare during the day - one of my things slipped beneath a cabinet and it’s too heavy for me to move it. I _tried_." He scrunched up his nose. “It’s not my fault everything here is witcher sized.” 

Eskel grinned, the smile distorting his scars. “Just say you’ve gotten soft and go.” 

“Hey - how dare you! I have _some_ muscle, I’ll have you know! Obviously not as much as you, but you’re all built worse than Skellige warriors, which is frankly ridiculous. But do you know how much strength it takes to play the lute, hmm?" Jaskier scoffed. “Yeah, didn’t think so! I’d like to see you try, witcher!” 

“Oh, it'd be a disaster. I like hearin' you play though. It’s relaxing,” Eskel said simply. 

“Well I - I ... ! Uh. Thanks.” Jaskier, who had been fully prepared to launch into another dramatic monologue, found himself disarmed by Eskel’s response. He cleared his throat, hoping Eskel couldn't see the blush blooming on his cheeks.

“Let’s go.” 

Jaskier followed the witcher back to the kitchen entrance and then upstairs to the rooms. “Gotta use the toilets first,” Eskel said. “Be right there.” 

Jaskier nodded and entered his bedroom again. He saw the mess on the bed and sighed. Time to deal with _that_. But first, a fire. Jaskier built one in the chimney of the room the way Geralt had taught him, a big pile of kindling and twigs followed by bigger and bigger logs so he wouldn’t have to reanimate it all the time. He lit it with matches and, knowing the room would get warm quickly, took off his woolen sweater, leaving him in his chemise, undershirt and pants. He opened the paper bag, humming a little tune as he sat on the bed and started rummaging through the pile of things to evaluate what he would keep and what to get rid of.

There were two old, thick notebooks in which he’d written lyrics, thoughts, and compositions - he set them aside to be kept with precaution. Broken quills and a cracked inkpot went into the bin. He had a bottle of soap, shampoo and a pair of thin socks with a hole in them. Jaskier rolled his eyes. There was spare change, which he slipped in one of his pockets, and a rusty pocket knife which he vaguely remembered buying years ago. 

Eskel appeared in the doorway. He’d gotten changed and his hair was pulled back in a tiny ponytail. “So, which cabinet was it?” 

“Err, the one with the books and clothes. It’s way too heavy.” 

“Indeed.” Eskel eyed the tall, large cabinet. No wonder Jaskier hadn’t been able to move it. “Alright.” He grabbed the cabinet on the side and tried to _push_ it forward. 

“Eskel?” 

“Hmm? Fuck, this is heavy.” 

“Told you. Do you like jewelry?” 

The cabinet moved suddenly, slipping on the wooden planks, and Eskel tripped and caught himself on it. There was indeed a small vial beneath it, among the dust balls, and the witcher bent down to retrieve it and bring it to Jaskier, who gave him a bright smile and told him to put it on the nightstand. 

“What’s all this, then?” Eskel asked, crossing his arm and leaning against one of the bedposts. 

“Just junk I accumulated over the past year.” Jaskier was sitting cross-legged on the bed and peering intently at a silver bracelet in front of him. “Including stuff I don’t remember buying… I’ve no idea where this one came from, it’s not my style at all! Did I buy it when I was drunk ?” 

Eskel scratched his scars. “A gift, maybe?” 

“I shall think my lovers and friends know me better than that.” The silver cuff looked rough, rustic. It was rather large and bumpy on the outside, as though the metal worker had given up halfway through on polishing it, and there were runes engraved on the inside. It was indeed not Jaskier’s style (although Eskel thought he could have made it work) because the bard tended to prefer finer, golden jewelry, and Eskel had also never seen him wear a bracelet in his life. It probably wasn’t practical, what with playing the lute. 

Jaskier looked up at him. “Do you want it? It’s not ugly per se, it’s just not to my taste. But it is fine work. I think the rusty look is on purpose. It would suit you.” 

Eskel didn’t own a lot of jewelry, but if he did, it would indeed be bracelets. He had a couple of them in his room, along with a chained silver necklace he’d gotten as payment for a contract, and a silver hoop earring he wore every other day. So he shrugged. “Sure, why not.” 

He held out his hand. Instead of dropping the bracelet into his palm, Jaskier clasped it around his wrist and tightened it. “There! Looks like it was made for you,” he nodded approvingly. “You look great.” 

Eskel held his hand in front of his face. The bracelet indeed looked nice, complimenting his warmer skin tone. “Thanks,” he then said, rubbing his wrist. The cuff was uncomfortably tight. “Guess I’ll leave you to your -- _ngk.”_

Jaskier looked up at the weird sound. “Eskel?” 

Eskel was staring down at the bracelet with a very odd expression on his face, his mouth half-open. On his chest, his wolf medallion started buzzing. Jaskier looked at the cuff as well, and his eyes widened. The two ends of the bracelet dug into Eskel’s skin, the thing _moving_ around like a live parasite. The skin around it was red, turning swollen and inflamed. Eskel stood eerily still and silent, staring blankly in front of him, his face terrifyingly void of any expression. 

“Shit,” Jaskier said. “Oh, shit. Eskel! Can you hear me? What’s happening?” 

Was the bracelet cursed? But why would he own cursed jewelry? Had someone given it to him ? Jaskier grabbed Eskel’s wrist to try to pry the metal away, but cried out and recoiled as the silver cuff _burned_ him. It was as hot as if he’d left it in a fire to melt. Jaskier sucked his finger into his mouth. The burn didn’t seem to affect Eskel himself - small blessings - but perhaps it affected everyone who would try to remove the bracelet now… Which begged the question - what the _fuck_ was happening to Eskel, and what the fuck was Jaskier supposed to do to stop it? 

“Fucking fuck and god damn it,” Jaskier cussed, jumping from the bed. “Okay, Eskel, it’s… It’s fine. It’ll be okay. Fucking hell, where’s Geralt when you need him? Or Vesemir?!” 

There was a loud crash behind him. Jaskier whirled around, his heart speeding up, to find Eskel had fallen on his knees beside the bed. He was hunched forward, his shoulders shaking, his left hand curling and uncurling to grip the bedcover. On his right forearm, the silver cuff glinted and clung to his skin like a starving dog with a bone. Eskel’s right hand was shaking, and he was gritting his teeth, his shoulders tense and rolling with each wave of pain. 

“Eskel - Eskel, _fuck_.” Jaskier ran to the witcher’s side and knelt next to him. He pressed a hand against Eskel’s clammy skin, noticed the beads of perspiration on his forehead. “By the gods… Eskel? Can you hear me? Can you talk?” 

There was a slicing sound and Eskel gasped as the cuff _cut through_ his skin. He screamed and heaved himself backwards, his head hitting the floor painfully, his left hand seizing his right arm in an effort to ease the pain. Jaskier stared at him, wide-eyed with horror, his breathing shallow, unable to do anything but watch it happen. He didn’t know what was happening, he didn’t understand - he only knew his friend was in pain and he didn’t know how to stop it. 

He tried once more to reach for the bracelet but the heat was worse than before. Eskel was bleeding, the silver cuff having burrowed itself deep inside his skin. He stopped screaming, but his eyes rolled back in his head and his body was run through with intermittent spasms. 

Jaskier slowly got up, trembling all over. He balled his hands into fists and forced himself to take a few deep breaths. Act. He had to act. Bandages. He could prepare bandages and warm water to clean Eskel’s wound. Surely Vesemir or Geralt or both would come back from their hunt soon. Until then he could at least ease Eskel’s pain, give him water, do _something_. Anything. 

On wobbly legs, he walked up to the cabinet Eskel had moved and opened the first drawer. Jaskier kept a small pouch there with some medicine, bandages and a bottle of alcohol. He grabbed them and returned to Eskel’s side, his brain still struggling to grasp the enormity of what was happening. Eskel was _strong_. He was good, he was kind, he wasn’t supposed to be in pain like that, it was just _wrong_. 

“Eskel,” Jaskier murmured. "I'm so sorry." He brushed a strand of hair away from Eskel’s face. The witcher had stopped moving. He just lied there on the floor with his eyes closed like he was taking an impromptu nap, an image belied by his bleeding, inflamed, bruised arm. Without hope, Jaskier touched the bracelet again. It burned. He pulled away. 

Grabbing the pitcher of water on his nightstand, Jaskier wet one of the linen strips and folded it into a neat square. He dabbed it gently on Eskel’s face, wiping away the sweat and dust, and started to hum a soothing lullaby, trying to calm himself down. Perhaps… perhaps it wasn’t that bad. Perhaps the bracelet was just… A nasty, enchanted bracelet whose sole purpose was to harm the person who slipped it on, but perhaps there were no other consequences than that…? 

Jaskier swallowed and wet the linen again. He didn’t believe that for a moment even as he thought it. Eskel had writhed in pain for at least five minutes. This curse, whatever it was, wasn’t kind. And if the bracelet had been lost among Jaskier’s things, it meant… He gulped again, his mouth dry. It meant this - this pain, this suffering - had been meant for _him_. But why? Who would want to do that to him? 

He didn’t understand. 

In front of him, Eskel grunted and shifted, his brows furrowing. His eyes fluttered open, his pupils contracting to a thin black slit to adjust to the light. Jaskier breathed a sigh of relief and scooted closer, his hands hovering uncertainly over the witcher, wanting to help but not knowing what to do. Eskel ignored him. He supported himself with his left hand and sat up slowly. He was scowling, the unfamiliar expression of deep displeasure twisting his face into an ugly grimace, accentuated by the scars. His head jerked as though he was chasing a fly. Again. And again. His neck kept twitching uncontrollably, like Eskel was a puppet controlled by a clumsy hand. The jerky, unnatural movements made Jaskier very uneasy. Slowly, ever so slowly, he backed away. Years of travelling with Geralt had taught him that he should trust his instincts, and right now, his gut feeling was telling him that there was something very wrong with Eskel. 

The witcher sat between Jaskier and the door. Jaskier didn’t know why yet but he knew he needed to run, could feel it in his heart, in his bones. He tried to make as little sound as possible as he started tiptoeing towards the exit. On the periphery of his vision, Eskel was standing up. Jaskier held his breath, his heartbeat roaring in his ears. Eskel was looking down at his hands, turning them this way and that. He adjusted the bracelet on his wrist, uncaring of the way it twisted in the raw wound. His face had gone back to the same abnormal blankness as before, when he’d first put it on. He rolled his head, his neck cracking, and cracked his knuckles as well. 

Jaskier didn’t stick around to see if Eskel - or the thing wearing Eskel’s face - would go through a whole workout routine. He bolted and _ran._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Be quiet. Everything's fine, why are you scared?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, READ THE TAGS. Do not read this if they're not to your liking. 
> 
> Otherwise, enjoy !

He did not make it out. 

There was a low, furious snarl behind him that made his hair stand on end. Eskel _slammed_ into his back with enough blunt force to stun him, pushing him against the door and pinning him there with all his weight. Jaskier wheezed, the breath knocked out of him. His head was turned to the side, his cheek pressed against the wood, his head throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision and tried to speak. 

“Es… Eskel, let go. You’re hurting me,” he said, his voice wavering. “Please?" 

Instead of replying, Eskel used one hand to lock Jaskier’s arms behind his back, his grip tight as iron and unbreakable. He sneaked the other up Jaskier’s front until it was curled against his throat. Jaskier went very, very still. 

“Sssh. Be quiet,” Eskel whispered. He stroked Jaskier’s neck with a finger, sending a cold shiver down the man’s spine. "Everything's fine, why are you scared?" 

Jaskier closed his eyes, a tear running down his cheek. He couldn’t reply. 

“Be quiet,” Eskel repeated, fingers tightening around Jaskier’s throat. The man went rigid in his arms. “That’s it, sssh…” 

But Eskel’s voice was so _cold_. 

So utterly _alien_. 

Nothing had happened yet, but Jaskier couldn’t hold back a sob, panic overwhelming his mind. He tried to struggle - he couldn’t help it. He’d never been afraid before in the presence of witchers, but _here_ the fear was a living, wild thing, clawing up his throat and sending his heart into overdrive, begging him to _run run run._

But it was futile. He could barely breathe, let alone make Eskel budge an inch. 

“Calm down," Eskel sighed as if disappointed. “Hold still. Give in." Jaskier could _hear_ the mean smile in his voice. "It'll hurt less if you do, I promise." 

“Eskel, Eskel, d - don't…" 

"Don't what?"

"Please snap out of it," Jaskier pleaded shakily. "This isn't - this isn't you." 

"Isn't it? They all call me a monster. Might as well act the part." 

"No!" 

"Shut up." Eskel grabbed Jaskier harder, his grip turning bruising, and Jaskier cried out in pain. Eskel’s hand curled in his hair, tugging it back and forcing him to expose his throat. He pressed his nose there, at his pulse point under his jaw, and inhaled deeply. “Hmm… Fuck, Jaskier, you smell so good. I could eat you alive." 

Jaskier’s mind drew a blank. 

“But this is uncomfortable,” Eskel muttered. “Couldn’t we… Yeah.” The man let go of Jaskier’s wrists, but not of his hair. Jaskier fell to the floor and Eskel held him up by his scalp, Jaskier’s hands pushing vainly against his wrist. Eskel took in the room, humming thoughtfully, with zero regard for the other man’s noises of pain, like Jaskier was nothing but a rag doll. “Have to lock the door…” 

Eskel let go of his hair and Jaskier slumped to the floor. 

The relief lasted two seconds before Eskel seized him again by the throat, and this time he did not let up. Jaskier gasped and choked, his body twisting in Eskel’s grip, his feet kicking uselessly, his arms flailing and catching onto Eskel’s elbow, his shoulder, begging him wordlessly to let go. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe, he needed to breathe, please let him _breathe -_

Eskel dragged him like this to the door, which he locked and boarded with one hand, and then to the other side of the room, slowly, painfully, _relentlessly_. Jaskier was suffocating. He could feel himself slipping, his vision darkening around the edges while Eskel calmly snuffed the fire out and boarded the window. Apparently satisfied, he did one last sweep of the room and lifted Jaskier up to meet his gaze. Jaskier clutched desperately at the hand choking him, pleading with his eyes and the last of his strength. It was the hand with the silver bracelet. It burned when he touched it, but Jaskier batted at it anyway. Eskel watched him struggle with an implacable stare, his amber eyes unyielding. 

Jaskier was going to die here. Eskel was going to kill him. 

The second Jaskier gave up, Eskel let go of him. He was grabbed by the collar and thrown onto the bed. The _sounds_ leaving his abused throat were horrendous. Death rattles and rasps of pain. He couldn’t breathe properly, couldn't even cough. He tried to lift his head to look at the man about to murder him but he hadn’t the strength. But he didn’t need to. The bed dipped as the man joined him, braced above Jaskier on all fours. His eyes were an odd color, silver mixed with amber. His face was scarred, monstrous, terrifying. Jaskier whimpered and tried to curl in on himself. 

Almost gently, the man pried his arms and legs apart. He pinned Jaskier's hands above his head, kissing his nose, his forehead, his mouth as he did so. Jaskier was utterly unresponsive. He let the man manhandle him as he pleased, until his hands were tied to the headboard with strips of linen turned into solid sailor knots. His pants and underwear were tugged down his legs, his chemise and undershirt cut away. A wet mouth pressed kisses down his throat, his chest, fingers pinching and twisting his nipples as Jaskier gave a feeble cry of protest. The man’s actions were catching up with his brain, even as his breathing returned to something more normal. He realized belatedly that he was trembling all over as the man touched him, that he was cold, so cold… His throat hurt like hell, and so did his head, and parts of his body. 

And he was going to be raped. Jaskier hid his face in the crook of his arm to weep. Raped and likely murdered, like any of the dozen women whose names he had heard in villages and towns, those stories of abusive husbands and serial killers and gangs of bandits uttered with hatred, fear and sorrow.

The gods help him.

Something warm and wet enveloped his cock. Jaskier looked down to see the man’s head bobbing up and down, and felt utterly detached from his body. 

He wasn’t here. 

“Nnnn… hhhhhh… _Nooooo…”_

For one split second, the man lifted his head. For one split second their eyes met, and _Eskel_ looked back at him, his eyes flashing with despair. 

Then it was gone. Eskel unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his pants. He took his cock out, thick and long and hard. A stab of primal fear lanced through Jaskier, and he tried to close his legs. 

“N - n - no, no, don’t --” 

He was shaking, sobbing, begging. It was useless. Eskel looked at his red, tear-streaked face with something like polite pity, and he pried Jaskier’s legs open, took his cock in hand, and forced himself inside. 

Jaskier wailed until his voice shattered. 

He had never felt pain like this. Every thrust was agony, every second he remained conscious a nightmare. He wanted it to stop. It _had_ to stop. He felt it tear something, deep inside him, and dimly thought _oh, this is bad_ before his mind locked itself away again. It hurt, it hurt, it _hurt_. 

Above him, the man was grunting in pleasure. 

Jaskier… drifted. 

There was a pretty glint on the man’s chest, moving in time with his thrusts. Jaskier wanted to catch it, like one would shiny baubles, but he couldn’t. His hands were tied and he hurt. When was this guy going to come? Jaskier wanted to leave. He drifted, thought about buying new lute strings. 

The man grabbed Jaskier’s ass and lifted him up. The new angle made his cock slide deeper, and Jaskier was abruptly back in his own body. 

“STOP!” He heard himself shriek. “STOP, STOP, STOP! _STOP IT!”_

“I can’t,” the man moaned. He shifted and sped up, pounding into him mercilessly, and clamped both hands above Jaskier’s mouth so his screams wouldn’t be heard. Jaskier bit him until he tasted blood. It was about as useful in throwing him off as pressing a tender kiss to his palm would have been. The man had very large hands. It made breathing difficult. Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut and waited for it to be over. 

The man’s rhythm began to falter. “Shit,” he panted, “Aanh, fuck -- Jaskier…” 

Jaskier glared daggers at him, and the man grinned, lopsided. “You feel so - fucking - good - I’m going to, oooh, oh - god, _yes --”_ He gave a guttural groan as he came, his cock deep inside Jaskier’s body, his nails raking down Jaskier’s chest. Jaskier flinched. 

The man shuddered in satisfaction, his smile not leaving his face. He collapsed on top of Jaskier with a happy sigh, his softening cock slipping out, and Jaskier was forced to breathe in his scent, his skin crawling with utter revulsion before the man rolled off of him. 

"Let me leave," Jaskier said. It came out as a warbled moan. He could feel come and blood trickle from his hole, leaving him wet and loose. He was sure that if he were to brush a hand between his legs, his fingers would come away red. He shuddered and gagged, feeling dirty and disgusting.

"Hmm," the man replied contentedly. He closed his eyes and stretched like a tomcat. 

There was a puff of smoke as the silver around Eskel’s wrist vanished, followed by the smell of burnt metal. 

Silence reigned, broken only by Jaskier's labored breaths - the proverbial calm before the storm. It didn't last.

“... What...?” 

The voice was weak, confused, disoriented. 

“Jaskier, why… What - why is -” Eskel said. “What… Wha' _happened?”_

Jaskier turned his head and forced himself to look at him. 

And he _saw_ it. He saw the moment Eskel went from confusion and shock to dawning realization to pure horror. His face went white as a sheet. He scrambled away to the edge of the bed, heaved, and threw up on the floor. 

“Oh god,” he rasped, trembling. “Oh - g - g- gods… I… I tried to…” 

Jaskier was staring at him placidly. Those were really some ugly scars, he thought. He cleared his throat, wincing. 

“Shiny,” he slurred, pointing at the wolf medallion. Eskel looked _terrified_. "Y'r arm's bleeding."

 _“My_ arm's bleedin' ?" Eskel repeated, his voice several octaves higher than normal. _“My_ arm ?! Melitele’s holy _tits_ , Jaskier ! I nearly - you - I… I nearly _killed_ you," he finished in a weak whisper. "Oh, gods." 

"Eskel."

"Oh, g - g - gods." Eskel raked his hand through his hair, tugged at it, his breaths short and irregular. “T - they’re goin' to kill me. You - you can't tell them," he stammered, verging on hysterical, "I need to leave _now_ , I - I need to - Geralt’s going to fuckin' kill me, he’ll track me down and fucking _kill_ me _\--"_

“Esk'l,” Jaskier repeated softly. The room was spinning.

“Jaskier! Jaskier, shit, you need help, you need - I’m gonna - potions, lotsa potions - there’s so much blood.” His voice broke. “I’m so sorry _,_ gods, what have I _done."_

“Not you,” Jaskier said, or tried to say.

“Jaskier? Jaskier ! Shit, fuck, stay with me! Do not go to sleep, bard, do you hear me? If you do I’ll…" Eskel shut his mouth and growled instead in desperation. He untied Jaskier's hands, wrapped him in the bedcovers and lifted him like a bride in his arms. The metallic scent of blood permeated his nose, coated his tongue, poisoning all his senses. 

He had to leave the keep. _Now._

"Just stay alive, bard, you hear me? Stay." 

\--

"... He'll be fine,” Eskel muttered to himself as he descended the stairs two at a time to the infirmary, with Jaskier bundled up in his arms. “It’ll be fine, just fine, he’ll be fine, hmm? Raped by a _witcher_ , ah, sure, he’ll be fucking fine, right as rain in no time, won’t he, he's strong, this one, be right as rain in no time, he’ll be just fine, just fine, just fine…” 

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. I really needed to get this out of my system !!! 
> 
> When I say Eskel drags him by the throat, this is what I mean :  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0JvYjeMa9eA  
>  **PLEASE BE CAREFUL BEFORE CLICKING** , this is a scene from the horror series The Haunting of Bly Manor in which a faceless woman drags another by the neck until she passes out from lack of air. It is quite upsetting and disturbing to watch. But yeah, that's what I had in mind! 
> 
> Thank you for reading !


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